


There and Back Again

by doctor_denmark



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17021505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_denmark/pseuds/doctor_denmark
Summary: "And if you're the woman who, driving along the A4155 that afternoon, found herself inexplicably picking up a pair of hitchhikers and driving them all the way into London, I'm really, really sorry". Lies Sleeping, Chapter 12





	There and Back Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mechanonymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanonymouse/gifts).



The thing is, I was supposed to be just driving to Reading to go to Ikea. It’s 20 minutes. If that. Well, traffic depending, and in the Thames Valley that means more the chance of getting stuck behind some idiot’s massive Chelsea Tractor than an actual tractor. It’s not the real countryside. Henley has a Starbucks for fucks sake. 

But it was just supposed to be a quick trip to Ikea for a bookcase. I was going to get there when it opened for browsing, get out as soon as I could pay and be back in time for my mum’s Sunday lunch. But instead I was pulling into to the side of the road just after Shiplake and picking up my first ever hitchhikers. 

“It’s absolutely no problem!” I assured them. They didn’t quite look like sisters, cousins maybe? Definitely not a big enough age gap to be mother and daughter. It had to be me that stopped for them anyway, because (and full offence to my neighbors) they weren’t white. And in my extensive lifetime of experience, all 27 years, being not white in this part of South Oxfordshire is an invitation to polite suspicion. Unless you’re a Saudi Prince at one of the local very expensive Public Schools. Then it’s a mixture of deference and polite suspicion until you’ve proved you can play polo. It’s not a coincidence Boris Johnson was the local MP until he fucked off to be Mayor of London. 

So if it wasn’t me, who was going to stop? 

Abigail was the younger girl’s name. The older one introduced herself as Beverley. 

“Radhika,” I introduced myself and packed their bags into the back of my 206 while Beverley got into the front rummaged around a bit until she helped herself to one of the polos I had in my glove compartment. 

“We had a family reunion.” Beverley explained. “Until our ride back got taken in on Police business.”

“In that our ride was the Police,” Abigail added. 

I shrugged. “My Mum was a traffic warden. That was a shit job. Now she works in Waitrose. And like I said, it’s no trouble. I can drop you at the station. 

Beverley told me about her uni course, and just as she was explaining some project work she was doing on wetland conservation I found myself changing lane as I headed to the big roundabout and getting onto the M4. 

Beverley’s voice was soothing. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to be doing this morning but it didn’t matter. It was early enough that even with the never ending roadworks at the Wokingham junction it wasn’t too busy. And I actually like motorway driving. 

“It’s probably easier for you to catch a train at Maidenhead,” I told Beverley. “Getting into the centre of Reading is a pain. I hope that’s ok.” 

“Whatever’s easiest for you,” Beverley said. 

It was moving past pleasantly warm, and into an actual hot summer day. “It’s so nice today, isn’t it. Especially after yesterday was sunshine and showers.” 

“British summer,” Abigail said sagely. 

“Makes you want to be outside doesn’t it.” The sign for the A404 came up but I didn’t signal to change lanes. “Except for all the tourists in Henley. That’s a bit shit. Except when they get chased by swans.”

The exit towards Maidenhead passed by and I looked the other way. We passed over the Thames again and I shivered, despite how hot it was in the car. 

“Look, I might just drop you off in Windsor if that’s ok with you. There’s always delays on the Paddington line on the weekend. Crossrail, you know?”

Beverley shrugged. “Whatever works for you.”

The glimpse of the water shimmered in my rear view mirror long after I should have been able to see it. I thought about how good it would be to go for a swim, later once I got home. The water would be cool and inviting, and there are spots as you walk out of town along the towpath where it would be easy to just strip off and swim and- 

"Bev," Abigail said. "Dial it back or we're going to crash. I'd rather at least do my GCSEs before I die in a ball of fire."

I snapped back to the road, and noticed that the Sunday traffic was starting to build up. I moved into the inside lane, and took the exit towards Windsor.

"Sorry," I told Bev and Abigail. "Windsor's going to be rammed with tourists on a day like today. Does Staines work?"

Abigail shook her head, but Bev reassured me that it was fine. "It's just really nice of you to help us."

I followed the back roads past Datchet, Old Windsor and through Runnymede. The river was right there, flashing behind the trees, coming in and out of vision. The avenue of trees past the Magna Carta monument seemed magical somehow, like I could see something moving in the shade, watching as we drove past. 

The road into Staines was busy. "You two are probably too young for an Ali G joke," I said. "It's actually really pretty on the river there, and the station is a bit of a pain to get to. It's honestly probably easier for me to take you all the way back now."

"That's really kind of you," Bev said. 

It probably would have been a bit quicker to go on the M3, but at this point I was really just enjoying the drive, so we took smaller roads and stuck closer to the river, getting a glimpse of it now and again as we drove. 

Sunbury and Hampton are the most picturesque villages you've ever seen, and we crawled through them, the traffic heavier as we hit the tourist rush. As we passed Hampton Court I thought I heard a snatch of a triumphal march somewhere across the breeze. They must have been doing a reconstruction or something. But after that snatch I didn't hear any more. 

As we crossed the bridge at Kingston, Bev leaned forward in her seat. It was like the universal symbol of almost-home. 

We turned north, and headed towards Richmond, Abigail giving me directions, leaning forward from the back seat. As we headed past Richmond Park, Bev relaxed back into her seat, just beyond a sign to Teddington Lock.

The funny thing is, I don't remember dropping them off. The next thing I knew, I was heading back towards Hammersmith Bridge to get on the A4 and head home. The car was suddenly too hot, the traffic was shit, and I wondered what the fuck had possessed me to head almost all the way into central fucking London on a hot weekend day. It took me two hours to get back to Reading, and by that point I couldn't make myself go to Ikea. I'm not really one for road rage, but I sort of wanted to murder the entire population of the south east. 

My sisters laughed at me when I finally got home without the fucking bookcase and an hour and a half past when mum was serving lunch. Mum told me off, but she'd saved a plate for me and as it was biryani my day felt better. It's funny how your mum's cooking can do that. 

A few days later I got an email from Thames21, thanking me for signing up as a volunteer and inviting me to attend a river cleanup at the end of the month. I didn't remember signing up, and I still needed to make that Ikea trip, but I found myself replying that I was looking forward to it. And as I picked up my thirty seventh coke bottle of the afternoon, on a wet Saturday a couple of weeks later, I found I was enjoying myself. I dropped the plastic bottle into my rubbish bag and smiled as I let my fingers trail into the water.


End file.
